•-NRLF 


ALEXANDER  GOLDSTEIN 


MAGAZINE  -  Illustrated 


, 


Abraham  Lincoln 

Personal  Memories 
of  the  Man 


ROBERT  BREWSTER  ST ANTON      32 


SPECIAL  ARTICLES  AND  ESSAYS 

Masterpieces  of  Wild  Animal  Photography 

WILLIAM  T.  HORNADAY 
The  Hope  Of  China.  The  Modern  Schoolboy  Over 

comes  Tradition  .  •  .  C.  LEROY  BALDRIDGE 
Holidays  in  the  Old  South.  Beinfe  Chronicles  of  Chi- 

coraWood.   First  Paper.  ELIZABETH  W.  A.  PRINGLE 

Personal  Recollections  of  Henry  James 

E.  S.  NADAL 

To  Rent  for  the  Summer 

MRS.  S.  VAN  RENSSELAER 

Guide-PoStS   and   Camp-FireS.     Fishing  in  Strange 
Waters.    The  Seventh  of  Twelve  Papers 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

FICTION 

Erskine  Dale  —  Pioneer.   Serial.  The  End 

JOHN  FOX,  JR. 

Each  in  His  Generation 

MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT 

Paths  from  Diamond  Patch  SARAH  ATHERTON 
The  Substitute     .     .     .  ROY  IRVING  MURRAY 

MiSS  Vilda.    A  Story  of  Gettysburg 

ELSIE  SINGMASTER 


POEMS 
A  Prayer 
Night  Song 


.     .     .      .    c.  L.  SAXBY 

HAMILTON  FISH  ARMSTRONG,  4 


11 

54 

72 

89 
105 

115 


DEPARTMENTS 

The  Point  of  View.     Thti.  a. 

Thoughts  on  Blue  Skies  and  Brotherhood — In  Behalf 

of  the  Womanly  Woman 121 

The    Field    Of    Art.      Ways  and  Thoughts  of  Modern 

Painters  of  Japan-       •        •  •  KOJ1RO  TOMITA    125 

The  Financial  Situation,     Looking  into  the  Future 

ALEXANDER  DANA  NOYES    129 


35  cents  a  number 


$4-00  a  year 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS    NEW  YORK 


H  ik  S.U.RETARY 


H  597  599  EFTH  /NE.NEWTORK  -CONSTABLE  &  COMPANY  LIMITED  LONDON. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  DURING  THE  DARKEST  DAYS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR. 

— Abraham  Lincoln,  page  32. 


Lincoln's  Last  Official 


the  field  of. 
stood   preci'% 
camera  exp  * 
the   climax  I 
McClintocF 
all  the  com 
Rungius  p& 
Mr.  End 
Colorado,  if 
the  '        ' 


Letter  Among  Historical 
Relics  Daugherty  Found 

Papers  Throwing  Light  on  Interesting  Phases 
of  Early  History  Unearthed  in  Musty 
Washington  Files 


,s 


r- 


tat  is  tim  f 
roundings  f  j 
blizzard. 


The  last  official  letter  written  by  Abraham  Lincoln  has  been  brought  er 
light  In  Washington  by  a  search  through  musty  files  directed  by  >ie 


Diizzara.     Attorney-General  Daugherty,  in  an  effort  to  disclose  official  records,' 
Mountain  growing  light  on  the  history  of  the  United  States. 
Clark's  ci         The  Lincoln  letter  is  among  many  documents   of  great  historicalia 
Life  on  Jnterest,  revealing  the  characters  of  the  men  who  played  so  great  a15-^ 
tion,  as  \v   J?art  in  the  early  formative  period  of  our  country's  affairs.  3n- 

has  not  2        Daugherty  said  he  was  particular- : — -)V- 

i  I  $y  impressed  by  the  "human"  side 
tograpnyj  £t  Lincoln,  who  appeared  to  inter- 
When  he  '«»t  himself  at  times  in  matters 
1C  Jwhlch  might  be  considered  unimpor- 
c  Itant,  yet  which  dealt  with  incidents 


™-ii  - 

Mills   car    pf  a  nature  involving:  kindness  and 

piece  was    {consideration  to  humble  folks. 
indorsement    by    Lincoln 


T      ,1 
in    tne 


An     indorsement    by    Lincon     on 
back  of  a  pension  petition,  dated 


Colorado    lApril  19,   1S62,   incidates   the  martyr 
acted  a  lc    I*res^ent's  personal    interest  in  the 

mountaii 
natural  | 
have  "si 
snow-log, 
world 


icase  of  a  war  widow: 

"Will  the  Attorney-General  please 
•examine  this  case  and  grive  me  his 
opinion  -whether  the  accounting  offi 
cers  should  pay  this  claim,  the 
resolution  of  Congress  to  the  con 
trary  notwithstanding. 

A.    LINCOLN.** 

Several  other  letters  in  Lincoln's' 
liand  on  various  subjects  were 
Jfound  in  the  records,  but  the  one  of 
greatest  historical  and  sympathetic 
Interest  is  that  written  on  April  13, 
1865,  for  it  its  believed  to  have  been 
the  last  official  letter  ever  penned 
"by  him.  He  was  shot  tiown  by  the 
assassin  on  April  14,  and  died  early 
the  following  morning: 

Executive  Mansion, 
•Washington,  April  13,  1805. 
'Attorney-General. 
Dear  Sir: 

Send  me  a  commission  for  "Wil 
liam  Kellogg,  to  he  judge  in  Ne 
braska,  in  place  of  \V.  P.  Kellogg, 


nomination    for    Allen    A.    Bradford' 

as   bis   successor.      Yours   truly,  , 

A.    LINCOLN. 


Notations   on  the  back  show  that  V 


lOt 


the  position  referred  to  was  that  of 
Federal    Judge    of    Colorado    Terri-  ite 
tory.  ,  . 

The  last  words  ever  written  by  nis 
Abraham  Lincoln,  Daugherty  said,  ien 
were  scribbled  on  the  back  of  a  71'f_ 

palUnfr    r>Q»«^i     o  4-     C-sn     ^.'^i^^i,     __     ir--'11-" 

sels 


calling 


at   8:30   o'clock   on   the 


night    of    April     14,     1865.       George- 
Ashmun   was   waiting-  in   the  White  hts 


resigned. 


Yours    truly, 

A.    LINCOLN. 


The  indorsements  on  the  back'  of 
the  letter  show  that  the  appoint 
ment  was  that  of  a  Chief  Justice  for 
the  Territory  of  Nebraska.  The  fact 


House  lobby  for  an  audience  when 
the  President  passed  through  on  his 
way  to  Join  Mrs.  Lincoln,  who 
seated  in  the  carriage  to.  take  them 
to  Ford's  Theater.  Lincoln  asked 
Mr.  Ashmun  for  his  card  and,  draw 
ing  a  lead  pencil  from  his  pocket 
wrote: 

"Admit    Mr.    Ashman    and    friends 
at  0  a.  m.  tomorrow.  A.  LINCOLN. 
'* April  34,  1805." 

This  card,  together  with  a  state 
ment  by  Ashmun.  is  preserved  in 
the  Lincoln  case  at  the  Library  of 
Congress. 

A  communication  from  President 
Grant,  dated  August  11,  1871.  prob 
ably  caused  something  of  a  flurry 
when  it  reached  the  Department  of 
Justice.  An  assistant  to  the  Attor 
ney-General  had  written  the  Presi 
dent  direct,  somewhat  abruptly  re 
questing  him  to  "furnish:  kl>  'tile.* 

fostir,  ,,,JJV,I_  t-I_  *.*•      »         Tf 


too 


facts  within  his  personal' 
edge"  concerning  the  /seizure  of,  a. 
steamboat  on  the  Oh'lo*  river  ttja 
years  before,  during  t^e.  ^-  ah.  ',.  Gen 
eral  Grant's  indorsement  on  this 
letter  is  written  in  a  very  firm 
hand  and  the  ink  used  was  of  the 
blackest:  ^.^^^ 


—  -03 


1*0 


oSBJpBd 

oq 

.JO   onu.-u    oqt    ai,puu 
- 


aq?  pire 
uuoj 

Sui[5jjT(ds 


jo  sjisnq  sq;  irt  pnnoj  uojp  jo 

B   SBM.    'sj[aaqo  ^soa   pnn  goia 

'msponSetu  PUB  aoBjS  jo  [\t\) 

'3uoj)8    v.    aujpunq    ut 


BIPB.I   JO    ( 
IBI(J     OS     '.- 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 


PERSONAL   MEMORIES    OF   THE   MAN 
By  Robert  Brewster  Stanton 

ILLUSTRATION  (FRONTISPIECE)  FROM  PHOTOGRAPH 


T  is  proper  at  the  start  to 
make  clear  how  I,  a  com 
paratively  young  boy  at 
the  time,  could  know  any 
thing  personally  and  inti 
mately  of  so  great  a  man 
as  Abraham  Lincoln. 

My  father,  the  Reverend  Robert  Liv 
ingston  Stanton,  D.D.,  a  Connecticut 
Yankee,  whose  New  England  family 
dates  back  to  1635  and  1620,  after  his 
graduation  from  the  College  of  Lane 
Seminary* — having  spent  six  years  under 
the  tutelage  of  Doctor  Lyman  Beecher 
and  with  Henry  Ward  Beecher  as  a  class 
mate,  and  going  through  that  period  of 
wild  anti-slavery  agitation  there  which 
nearly  broke  up  the  seminary  and  finally 
led  to  the  splitting  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church  into  its  North  and  South  branches 
—took  up  his  first  pastoral  work,  in  1839, 
in  the  little  church  of  Pine  Ridge, 
Adams  County,  Miss.,  and  in  1841  re 
moved  to  Woodville,  Miss. — at  which 
place  I  was  born,  in  1846,  my  mother 
being  also  from  the  North — and  he  lived 
in  Woodville  as  pastor  there  and  in  New 
Orleans,  and  as  president  of  Oakland 
College,  Miss.,  until  1853. 

During  all  my  father's  life  in  the  South 
he  was  a  true  abolitionist.  He  knew  the 
institution  of  slavery  from  the  inside. 
He  condemned. the  position  of  the  South, 
par.tk.til&f}'):  th£  position  of  the  Southern 
.church  on*  slavery, f  but  he  knew  the 
•Spiftkecn  lH®gle  and  he  loved  them  too. 
He  devoted  UU'Kig'efforts  to  furthering  the 
aims  of  the  American  Colonization  So 
ciety,  of  which  he  was  an  officer,  and  in 
which  he  earnestly  labored  up  to  the  time 

*  At  that  time  Lane  Seminary,  at  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  was 
a  real  college,  with  a  theological  department  attached.  Later 
the  college  proper  was  abandoned,  and  it  became  a  theolog 
ical  seminary  pure  and  simple.  My  father  graduated  from 
the  college,  but  only  spent  two  years  there  in  his  theological 
studies. 

t  "The  Church  and  the  Rebellion,"  by  Robert  L.  Stan- 
ton,  D.D.,  New  York,  1864. 


when  war  finally  swept  away  all  possibil 
ity  of  its  success. 

When  the  dark  days  of  '61  came  my 
father  recognized  that  perhaps  God,  in 
his  inscrutable  knowledge,  knew  a  better 
way,  and  he  became  a  war  parson  and 
was  one  of  the  foremost  in  his  calling  to 
hold  up  the  hands  of  the  war  President, 
and,  unlike  some  other  abolitionists  of 
that  day,  he  stayed  by  him  to  the  end. 

It  has  always  been  my  belief  that  the 
reason  why  Abraham  Lincoln  and  my 
father  became  such  warm  friends  was  be 
cause  he  brought  to  the  President  a  cer 
tain  inside  knowledge  of  the  South  and 
its  people,  from  an  earnest  and  loyal  fol- 
lowei,  and  Mr.  Lincoln  welcomed  such 
direct  information  when  they  discussed 
together  the  perplexing  problems  of  those 
days,  as  they  so  often  did. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  I,  even  so 
young,  going  with  my  father,  came  to 
know  Mr.  Lincoln  personally,  and  was 
able  to  sit  with  him  for  hours  at  a  time, 
in  his  private  office  at  the  White  House, 
and  listen  to  those  talks  and  discussions 
and  observe  him  at  close  range,  and  study 
his  every  word  and  action  a*t  times  when 
there  was  nothing  to  disturb,  and  when 
only  one  or  two  others  were  in  the  room. 

The  first  time  I  saw  Mr.  Lincoln  was 
in  February,  1861,  a  few  days  before  his 
inauguration,  when,  as  President-elect,  he 
was  stopping  at  Willard's  Hotel  in  Wash 
ington.  A  crowd  was  passing  through 
his  reception-room  in  a  continual  stream, 
so  that  I  had  only  a  few  minutes  to  ob 
serve  him,  but  I  lingered  as  long  as  I 
could.  At  that  time  his  countenance 
seemed  to  betray  anxiety,  or  was  it  weari 
ness  from  those  continued  handshakings  ? 
I  could  not  determine  which  it  was  in  the 
first  and  few  moments  of  seeing  his  face. 
But  as  some  friend  would  accompany  the 
grasp  of  his  hand  with  a  word  of  cheer,  or 


- 


Abraham  Lincoln 


33 


a  "  God  bless  you,"  the  warm  grasp  was 
returned,  the  hearty  "Thank  you"  ac 
companied  with  that  sweet,  gentle  smile 
^f  his;  and  at  other  times,  when  some 
one  seemed  to  strike  a  tender  chord  by 
what  was  said,  his  eye  became  moist  by 
what  appeared  to  be  a  starting  tear. 

The  first  time  I  heard  Mr.  Lincoln 
speak  was  at  his  first  inauguration.  I  was 
then  fifteen  years  of  age,  but  I  stood  near 
to  him  and  drank  in  every  word  he  said, 
My  mind  had  been  prepared  by  the  discus 
sion  of  possible  events  since  the  election  of 
the  previous  November,  and  startled  by 
the  President-elect  coming  to  Washington 
in  disguise  (though  against  his  wish)  to 
save  him  from  threatening  enemies,  so  that 
I  was  in  a  frame  of  mind  full  of  excitement 
and  expectation  as  I  stood  listening  to 
those  gentle,  yet  firm  and  earnest,  ut 
terances  in  that  first  inaugural,  sur 
rounded  as  I  was,  so  close  to  the  platform 
on  which  he  stood,  by  that  band  of  deter 
mined  Northern  and  Western  men  who, 
known  to  but  a  few  and  unrecognizable 
to  the  crowd,  were  armed  to  the  teeth  to 
protect  him  and  repel  the  threatened  at 
tack  upon  his  person. 

At  this  late  day,  I  cannot  recall  a  single 
sentence  of.  that  first  address,  nor  shall  I 
attempt  to  refresh  my  memory  by  read 
ing  it  at  this  time.  What  impressed  me 
then,  and  remains  as  clear  to-day  as  ever, 
was  the  man  and  his  character  as  they 
came  to  me  not  so  much  in  what  he  said, 
but  in  the  manner  in  which  he  spoke: 
gentle,  loving,  yet  earnest,  unafraid,  de 
termined,  ready  to  take  up  any  burden 
or  any  task  and  carry  it  through,  as  God 
gave  him  the  strength. 

Four  years  later,  I  stood  on  the  same 
spot  and  listened  to  the  President's  sec 
ond  inaugural  address. 

During  those  four  long,  weary,  suffer 
ing  years,  what  burdens  had  he  not  borne  ? 
Burdens  from  the  tragedies  of  the  war  it 
self,  from  the  bickerings  and  slanders  of 
those  who  should  have  been  his  stanch- 
est  friends,  some  almost  within  his  own 
household,  and  from  that  deepest  of  per 
sonal  sorrows  when  his  beloved  little  son 
William  died. 

From  the  first  time  I  met  him,  I  saw 

gathering  on  his  face,  month  by  month, 

that  sad,   anxious,   far-away  expression 

that  has  so  often  been  referred  to  and  fre- 

VOL.  LXVIIL— 3 


quently  been  so  exaggerated.  Therefore, 
at  that  second  inauguration,  I  think  I  was 
well  fitted  to  understand  the  depth,  the 
earnestness,  and  the  sincerity  of  those  im 
mortal  words:  "With  malice  toward 
none,  with  charity  for  all." 

But  how  came  I,  a  boy  so  young,  to  un 
derstand  at  all  the  man  of  whom  I  speak, 
and  the  questions  of  those  trying  days? 

The  winter  before,  I  had  sat  in  the  gal 
lery  of  the  Senate  and  the  gallery  of  the 
House  and  heard  those  ominous,  fore 
boding  speeches,  from  both  sides  of  the 
chambers;  and  later  I  listened  to  the  ora 
tions  of  the  great  leaders,  Charles  Surnner 
in  the  Senate  and  Thaddeus  Stevens  in 
the  House,  as  well  as  many  others;  be 
sides  the  vindictive  ^utterances  of  the 
"fire-eaters"  from  the  South.  I  saw 
delegation  after  delegation  withdraw  from 
the  Congress  as  their  several  States 
seceded  irom  thj  Union,  and  heard  the 
defiant  yet  sorrowful  and  tearful  fare 
wells  of  those  Southern  men  who  really 
loved  their  country  well,  but  loved  their 
States  and  their  beliefs  better. 

With  this  education  in  national  affairs 
in  those  stirring  times,  and  my  father's 
instructive  talks  at  home — we  were  chums 
during  all  of  his  life — together  with  my 
reading  of  the  newspapers  of  the  day,  I 
felt  that  I  was  somewhat  posted  on  the 
problems  of  the  hour,  and  I  longed  to  hear 
something  of  those  same  problems  from 
the  lips  of  the  great  man  who  was  leading, 
and  was  destined  to  lead,  the  nation 
through  the  darkest  and  bitterest  experi 
ences  of  its  life. 

My  opportunity  came  at  last.  My 
father  took  me  to  see  the  President  when 
he  called  to  discuss  with  him  some  of 
those  problems  of  the  country  and  the 
war.  My  father  was  his  personal  friend 
and  I  did  not  wonder  at  his  reception. 
But  is  it  possible  that  I  ever  can  forget 
the  way  Abraham  Lincoln  received  me — 
a  mere  lad?  His  cordial  manner,  the 
warm  grasp  of  that  large,  kind,  gentle 
hand,  the  fascinating  though  almost 
evasive  smile,  and  the  simple  word  or  two 
of  welcome,  were  so  earnest  and  sincere 
that  I  thought  he  intended  me  to  under 
stand — and  so  I  felt — that  he  received 
me  not  as  a  boy,  but  as  a  man,  though 
very  young.  That  first  warm  hand-clasp 
(though  later  I  had  many  more)  from 


34 


Abraham   Lincoln 


that  good  and  great  man  is  one  of  the 
most  cherished  memories  of  my  life. 

Of  course,  I  did  not  enter  into  the  con 
versation.  I.  simply  listened  in  admira 
tion,  drinking  in  every  word  he  said  with 
reverence,  for  I  was  not  one  of  those  who 
ever  doubted  him  for  a  moment.  My  un 
bounded,  youthful  admiration  had  not 
lessened,  but  had  expanded,  from  the 
first  day  I  heard  him  speak — March  4, 
1861. 

At  that  very  first  meeting  I  heard  Mr. 
Lincoln  discuss  and  explain  some  of  his 
perplexing  problems  and  how  he  solved 
them.  One  in  particular.  It  will  be  re 
called  that  all  through  the  war  of  the  Re 
bellion,  certain  critical  friends,  as  well  as 
enemies,  charged  that  in  many  of  his  acts 
the  President  went  beyond  his  Constitu 
tional  and  legal  rights  and  exercised  a 
power  almost  dictatorial. 

On  that,  to  me,  memorable  evening 
he  discussed  with  my  father  this  very 
phase  of  his  administration  of  national 
and  State  affairs,  for  undoubtedly  he  had 
overstepped  State  rights.  He  freely  ac 
knowledged  that  some  things  he  had 
done,  and  decisions  he  had  made,  were 
possibly  beyond  his  constitutional  right 
to  do.  Yet  he  knew  the  necessity,  and 
with  his  bold,  unafraid  determination, 
and  his  clear  and  marvellous  insight  into 
the  true  nature  of  things,  he,  in  those 
emergencies,  did  what  he  felt  to  be  right, 
as  God  gave  him  the  vision  to  see  the 
right. 

How  did  he  explain  his  actions?  In 
these  few  simple,  and  even  humorous, 
words:  "I  am  like  the  Irishman,  I  have 
to  do  some  things  '  unbeknownst  to  my 
self.'  ' 

He  never  sought  nor  desired  the  oppor 
tunity  to  exercise  his  power,  as  is  so 
clearly  shown  by  his  long,  patient,  yet 
sorrowful  consideration  before  he  per 
formed  his  greatest  act.  This,  also,  he  at 
other  times  discussed  with  my  father. 
The  one  object  he  always  kept  in  view 
was  to  save  the  Union  of  the  States,  and 
not  simply  to  abolish  slavery.  And  he 
continued  unmoved  by  the  howls  of  all 
abolitiondom  and  the  arguments  of  those 
who  thought  they  knew  better  than  he; 
patiently  waiting  for  the  proper  time  to 
do  the  right  thing.  And  when  he  found  it, 
and  not  before,  then  it  was  that  he  used 


his  power  and  put  his  name  to  the  Emanci 
pation  Proclamation. 

I  had  seen  Mr.  Lincoln  many  times  be 
fore  I  first  met  him,  but  this  was  the  first 
time  that  I  had  had  the  privilege  and 
honor  of  sitting  close  to  him  and  studying 
him  at  leisure. 

Through  the  whole  of  the  campaign  of 
1860,  while  recognizing  his  ability,  he  had 
been  characterized  as  "Old  Abe,"  the 
long,  lank,  gawky  rail-splitter.  On  com 
ing  to  Washington  he  had  been  ridiculed 
for  the  manner  in  which  he  had  entered 
the  city,  and  spoken  of  as  that  rough,  un 
couth  Westerner  from  the  prairies  of  Il 
linois  who  had  dared  to  come  among  the 
exclusive,  high-born,  generally  Southern 
people  of  the  capital.  I,  as  a  boy,  knew 
many  of  the  families  of  those  old,  ex 
clusive,  pre-war  Washingtonians,  for  I 
had  lived  there  with  my  grandmother 
on  my  mother's  side,  an  English  woman 
who  went  to  Washington  about  1800, 
and  I  had  heard,  more  particularly  from 
the  dames  of  society,  those  bitter,  cutting 
remarks  about  Mr.  Lincoln's  uncouth 
mannerisms  and  uncivilized  behavior. 

What  was  my  surprise,  then,  when  I 
saw  him  and  heard  him  at  that  first 
inauguration !  There  I  saw  a  tall,  square- 
shouldered  man  with  long  arms  and  legs, 
but,  as  he  came  down  the  east  steps  of 
the  Capitol  and  onto  the  platform  from 
which  he  spoke,  he  walked  with  such  a 
dignified  carriage  and  seeming  perfect 
ease,  that  there  was  dispelled  forever 
from  my  mind  the  idea  that  he  was  in 
any  way  uncouth  or  at  a  loss  to  know  the 
proper  thing  to  do  or  how  to  do  it. 

When  he  began  to  speak  I  was  again 
surprised,  on  account  of  what  I  had  heard 
of  him.  He  spoke  so  naturally,  without 
any  attempted  oratorical  effect,  but  with 
such  an  earnest  simplicity  and  firmness, 
that  he  seemed  to  me  to  have  but  one 
desire  as  shown  in  his  manner  of  speak 
ing—to  draw  that  crowd  close  to  him  and 
talk  to  them  as  man  to  man. 

His  manner  was  that  of  perfect  self- 
possession.  He  seemed  to  me  to  fully 
appreciate  his  new  and  unexpected  sur 
roundings,  to  understand  perfectly  the 
enormous  responsibilities  he  was  under 
taking,  but  at  the  same  time  to  have 
perfect  confidence  in  himself  that,  with 


Abraham   Lincoln 


35 


God's  help,  which  he  always  invoked,  he 
could  and  would  carry  them  through  to 
a  successful  conclusion. 

As  Colonel  Henry  Watterson  has  so 
clearly  expressed  his  own  impressions  on 
hearing  the  same  inaugural,  "He  de 
livered  that  inaugural  address  as  if  he  had 
been  delivering  inaugural  addresses  all 
his  life." 

It  was,  however,  when  sitting  close  to 
him  in  his  office,  listening  to  those  ani 
mated  and  earnest  discussions,  as  well  as 
on  other  occasions,  that  I  learned  to  know 
him  and  understand,  as  I  thought,  his  al 
most  every  movement. 

When  sitting  in  his  chair  in  quiet  re 
pose,  leaning  back  listening  to  others; 
when  he  was  preparing  to  reply,  as  he 
straightened  up  and  even  leaned  forward; 
or  while  pacing  the  floor  listening  or 
speaking,  I  never  saw  him  once  when,  as 
was  so  often  said,  he  seemed  in  the  least  at 
a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  his  hands 
or  how  to  carry  his  large  feet.  His  every 
movement,  his  every  gesture,  seemed  so 
natural,  so  simple,  so  unconscious,  and  yet 
so  suited  to  the  matter  in  hand  and  the 
circumstances  at  the  time,  that  they  im 
pressed  me  as  singularly  graceful.  Grace 
ful  may  seem  to  some  a  rather  strong 
word  to  use. 

It  is  true  that  his  figure  was  tall,  lean, 
possibly  lank,  and  in  a  sense  "ungainly." 
Yet  with  all  this  he  had  that  dignity  of 
bearing,  that  purposeful,  self-possessed, 
and  natural  pose  which,  to  me,  not  only 
demanded  admiration  but  inspired  rever 
ence  on  almost  every  occasion.  In  inti 
mate  association,  the  movements  of  his 
body  and  the  gestures  of  his  arms  and 
hands  were  so  pleasing  that  all  impres 
sions  of  ungainliness  were  swept  away. 
So  I  say,  Mr.  Lincoln  was  singularly 
graceful. 

Is  it  any  wonder  then  that  when  some 
years  ago  I  stood  before  that  statue  of 
some  imagined  Lincoln  which  Barnard 
had  brought  forth,  and  patiently  studied 
it,  the  result  was  to  produce  in  me  a  feel 
ing  of  profound  sorrow  that  such  a  gro 
tesque  caricature  should  ever  have  been 
made  of  the  man  whom  I  knew  personally 
and  loved  so  well? 

Mr.  Lincoln's  hands  and  feet  were 
large,  but  not  unduly  so  in  proportion  to 
the  size  of  his  body.  And  many  large 


things,  even  though  not  symmetrically 
beautiful  in  themselves,  can  be  graceful 
both  in  repose  and  in  the  delicate  curves 
and  the  sensitiveness  of  their  movements. 

Mr.  Lincoln's  walk,  whether  while 
quietly  moving  about  his  office,  on  the 
street,  or  on  more  stately  occasions,  was 
most  dignified,  easy,  natural,  and  pleas 
ing.  His  head  was  usually  bent  a  trifle 
forward  but  not  bowed,  except  on  special 
occasions.  There  was,  to  me  at  least,  no 
evidence  of  loose  joints,  jerky  movement, 
or  clumsiness.  At  one  time  I  saw  him 
under  circumstances  which,  if  any  could 
bring  out  those  reputed  defects  in  his  car 
riage,  should  have  done  so.  It  was  at 
a  meeting  of  the  Houses  of  Congress, 
gathered  in  the  House  of  Representatives 
to  celebrate  some  victory  of  the  war. 
The  chamber  was  packed,  and  the  gal 
leries  overflowed  with  men  and  women. 
I  sat  in  a  front-row  seat.  The  door  opened 
on  the  opposite  side,  and  as  the  Marine 
Band  played  "Hail  to  the  Chief,"  Mr. 
Lincoln  entered.  The  whole  audience 
rose  and  cheered.  He  glanced  up  at  the 
throng  and  there  appeared  on  his  coun 
tenance  a  bright,  beautiful,  but  gentle 
smile  of  thanks,  nothing  more.  In  a  mo 
ment  this  was  gone,  and  holding  himself 
perfectly  erect,  with  an  expression  of  un 
concern  and  self-possession,  he  walked 
across  the  hall  up  to  the  speaker's  desk 
with  a  simple  grandeur  and  profound  dig 
nity  that  would  be  difficult  for  any  one  to 
surpass. 

At  another  time  I  saw  what  at  first 
surprised  me  greatly.  It  was  at  the  great 
review  of  General  McClellan's  Army  of 
the  Potomac,  that  army  that  had  been 
getting  ready  so  long.  Seventy-five  thou 
sand  men  of  all  arms  were  gathered  on 
the  Virginia  plain,  and  a  throng  had  come 
out  from  the  capital  to  see  them.  In  a 
little  carriage  my  father,  mother,  and  I 
were  among  the  spectators.  We  were 
placed  within  twenty  feet  of  where  the 
President's  carriage  stood.  The  military 
spectacle  was  of  course  inspiring,  but 
what  interested  me  more  was  observing 
Mr.  Lincoln's  part  in  the  grand  review. 

Only  lately  I  was  as"ked,  here  in  New 
York,  whether  it  was  true  that  Mr.  Lin 
coln  went  to  that  review  dressed  in  an 
old,  yellowish  linen  suit.  It  was  not.  He 
was  dressed  in  his  accustomed  black 


36 


Abraham  Lincoln 


broadcloth,  long  frock  coat,  and  usual 
high  silk  hat,  this  time  a  new  one. 

I  was  close  enough  to  him  to  clearly 
note  his  every  movement  and  see  the  ex 
pression  of  his  face.  As  the  commander- 
in-chief  of  the  army  and  navy  of  the 
United  States  rode  down  that  long  line, 
mounted  on  a  magnificent  charger,  fol 
lowed  by  the  general  and  his  staff,  he  sat 
and  rode  his  horse  as  if  it  were  the  one 
thing  in  the  world  he  knew  how  to  do.  He 
sat  perfectly  erect,  not  stiffly,  but  at  per 
fect  ease,  and  in  all  that  throng  of  trained 
military  men  there  was  not  a  general  who 
bore  himself  with  more,  no,  not  as  much, 
dignity,  and  rode  with  more  true  mili 
tary  bearing  than  the  President. 

This  was  one  time  when  I  saw  him,  as 
he  rode  down  the  line,  when  his  face 
seemed  never  to  change.  His  eyes  then 
were  not  listless,  his  whole  countenance 
beamed  with  one  expression — that  of 
pride  in  the  thoroughly  organized  army 
that  he  believed  would  bring  victory. 

After  the  review  was  over  the  single 
road  leading  from  where  we  were  was 
filled  with  carriages  bound  for  Washing 
ton.  My  father  whipped  his  horse  in 
line  immediately  behind  the  carriage  of 
the  President.  It  has  always  been  a 
wonder  to  me  that  after  that  military 
pageant  the  commander-in-chief  of  the 
army  was  not  provided  with  a  cavalry 
escort  to  clear  the  way  and  protect  him 
from  possible  accident.  His  carriage  was 
merely  one  in  a  long  line  of  similar  car 
riages  hurrying  home  as  best  they  could. 
John  Hay  sat  on  the  back  seat  with  the 
President.  As  the  procession  ahead 
slowed  up  or  halted,  Mr.  Hay  turned 
round  and  raised  his  hand  in  warning  to 
us  not  to  run  over  them. 

I  have  said  that  Mr.  Lincoln's  move 
ments  were  graceful.  What  is  it  that 
compels  me  to  declare  that  his  face,  to  me 
at  least,  was  beautiful?  Again,  beautiful 
may  be  a  strong  word  to  use,  but  I  do  not 
mean  "pretty."  No!  not  anything  so 
common. 

I  know  his  cheekbones  were  too  promi 
nent,  his  cheeks  somewhat  sunken,  his 
mouth  large  and  at  times  "ungainly,"  his 
chin,  especially  with  the  whiskers  he  wore, 
appeared  too  far  out  from  his  mouth,  his 
whole  face  furrowed  (but  not  nearly  so 
deep  as  generally  supposed) ,  and  his  eyes 


"half  listless."  This  latter,  however,  not 
always  so  even  when  inactive,  but  only  on 
special  occasions. 

I  saw  him  when  he  was  cheerful,  gay, 
convulsed  in  hilarious  laughter;  saw  him 
when  he  was  being  twitted  by  a  friend, 
when  he  was  humorously  acknowledging 
the  justice  of  that  twitting;  saw  him 
when  he  was  sad  and  sorrowful,  sad  from 
his  own  sorrows,  sad  for  the  sorrows  of 
others,  sad  and  at  the  same  time  cheerful 
for  his  sick  and  wounded  boys  in  blue, 
sad  and  worried  over  the  suffering  of  his 
country.  I  saw  all  these  moods  at  various 
times;  and  each  and  every  feature  of  his 
face  exactly  as  it  was,  but  there  was  a 
something  that  came  out  from  behind 
them,  and  spoke  not  in  words,  but  shone 
and  spoke  through  them  by  means  of 
them,  and  turned  them  all  into  real  beau 
ty.  And  in  all  these  moods,  first  or  last, 
that  spirit  of  beauty  which  I  saw  spread 
over  his  whole  countenance  and  drew  one 
to  him  as  by  the  power  of  magic. 

It  was  when  sitting  perfectly  quiet, 
listening  to  some  important  statement  or 
argument,  studying  some  complex  prob 
lem,  that  those  features  which  have  been 
called  ungainly  showed  more  plainly.  At 
such  times  the  furrows  of  his  face  seemed 
deeper,  the  eyes  more  listless,  and  the 
large  mouth  looked  larger  and  more  illy 
formed,  but  as  he  gathered  the  meaning 
of  what  was  being  said  and  seemed  to  be 
formulating  his  reply,  the  eyes  began  to 
open  and  you  first  saw  the  twinkle  of 
stars,  then  the  furrows  in  his  cheeks  al 
most  disappeared,  the  mouth  seemed  to 
be  completely  re-formed,  a  light  broke  out, 
spreading  all  over  his  face.  In  important 
cases  of  discussion  his  eyes  flashed  verita 
ble  fire  as  he  spoke,  and,  as  has  been  said 
by  another,  there  came  from  that  mouth 
"flashes  of  genius  and  burning  words, 
revelations  as  it  were  from  the  unknown." 
Then  it  was  that  the  beauty  which  I  saw 
was  sublime. 

If  the  matter  in  hand  was  of  a  lighter 
vein,  the  same  awakening  came,  but  the 
brighter  light  of  his  face  turned  into  that 
charming  smile,  gentle,  evasive,  or  spar 
kling  and  humorous,  which  always  ap 
peared  to  me  so  bewitching.  So,  when 
ever  I  happened  to  be  near  him  and  at 
first  saw  that  sorrowful,  depressed,  far 
away  expression  we  have  heard  so  much 


Abraham  Lincoln 


37 


about  and  which  under  the  burdens  he 
was  bearing  did  darken  his  face  fre 
quently,  I  had  only  to  wait,  sometimes 
only  moments,  until  the  real  spirit  of  the 
man,  his  hopefulness,  his  trustfulness,  his 
cheerfulness,  returned  and  each  feature 
regained  its  share  of  that  real  beauty  of 
soul  that  shone  through  them,  which  held 
me  and  every  one  who  knew  him  so  firm 
ly  and  drew  me  to  him  by  some  very 
natural  yet  magical  power  that  swept 
away  every  impression  and  memory  of 
his  appearance  except  that  of  beauty. 

I  was  once  asked  to  examine  a  collec 
tion  of  more  than  one  hundred  original 
photographs  of  Mr.  Lincoln  and  pick  out 
the  one  I  thought  the  best  likeness  of  the 
man  as  I  had  known  him.  In  many  of 
them  I  could  see  a  perfect  picture  of  his 
face  as  I  had  seen  him  (at  times),  but  none 
of  these  was  my  Lincoln  nor  was  it  the 
Lincoln  as  the  other  men  of  those  days 
knew  him. 

The  picture  I  was  looking  for  was  one 
that  showed  something  of  the  spirit  of  the 
man  as  I  have  feebly  attempted  to  de 
scribe  it.  At  last  I  found  it.  It  was  the 
same  one  I  had  had  in  my  collection — so 
unfortunately  burned — and  which  I  had 
cherished  since  1861. 

It  is  true  that  this  photograph  was 
taken  before  the  burdens  of  the  Civil 
War  had  pressed  so  heavily  upon  him, 
but  all  the  earnestness  of  his  character  is 
there,  some  of  the  sadness,  and  much  of 
the  brightness  and  joyfulness  of  his  spirit 
(although  it  does  seem  suppressed),  and 
some  little,  also,  of  that  light  which  I 
have  spoken  of  as  coming  out  through 
those  rugged  features.  This  picture 
comes  nearer  than  any  photograph  of 
which  I  know  in  portraying  something  of 
that  startling  magical  power  which  drew 
all  men  to  him  and  held  them  enchanted 
when  in  his  presence,  even  though  the 
"beauty,"  which  I  saw,  of  sparkling  eye 
arid  smile,  may  be  lacking. 

Every  one  remembers  the  account 
given  of  the  night  in  November,  1864, 
when  the  returns  were  coming  in  from 
the  election,  and  how  it  seemed  to  others, 
especially  to  the  secretary  of  w,ar,  that 
Mr.  Lincoln  gave  so  little  heed  to  the 
momentous  occasion  as  he  sat  reading  a 
humorous  story.  But  that  Mr.  Lincoln 


from  the  very  first  was  most  deeply  in 
terested  in  the  prospects  and  outcome  of 
that  second  election,  the  following  inci 
dent,  in  my  father's  intercourse  with  the 
President,  will  show. 

Calling  one  day  at  the  White  House,  in 
May,  1864,  about  eleven  o'clock,  he 
found  the  anteroom  and  passages  filled. 
Men  and  women,  well  dressed  and  not  so 
well,  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  with 
not  a  few  officials  in  civil  stations  and 
some  with  shoulder-straps  and  brass  but 
tons,  were  among  the  eager  multitude. 
Many  had  sent  in  their  cards  or  letters, 
and  others  were  sending  them.  This 
privilege  was  denied  to  no  one,  but  it  was 
not  "  First  come,  first  served."  The  Presi 
dent  received  those  whom  he  wished  to 
see,  regardless  of  who  might  be  waiting, 
however  exalted  their  positions  may  have 
been ;  so  my  father  decided  to  try  a  little 
''strategy." 

Each  winter  throughout  the  war,  he 
had  been  living  in  Kentucky,  associated 
with  some  of  the  political  and  ministerial 
leaders  of  that  State.  He  knew  that  Mr. 
Lincoln  was  looking  forward  to  a  nomina 
tion  for  re-election,  at  the  coming  Balti 
more  Convention,  and  only  a  few  days 
before  my  father  had  received  in  Wash 
ington  a  letter  from  a  distinguished 
citizen  of  Kentucky  giving  his  views  on 
the  prospects  of  the  approaching  political 
campaign  there.  The  Kentucky  State 
elections  occurred  in  August.  The  writer 
of  that  letter  was  the  Reverend  Robert  J. 
Breckinridge,  D.D.,  who  afterward  be 
came  temporary  chairman  of  the  Balti 
more  Convention  which  nominated  Mr. 
Lincoln  for  his  second  term.  My  father's 
little  strategy  was  simply  sending  in  his 
card,  with  this  inscription:  "With  a  letter 
from  Doctor  R.  J.  Breckinridge  on  the 
political  situation  in  Kentucky" 

In  a  very  few  minutes  the  messenger 
returned  and  called  aloud  for  "Doctor 
Stanton,"  and  he  was  admitted  at  once. 
A  delegation  from  Arkansas  was  just  re 
tiring.  When  they  had  gone,  the  Presi 
dent  welcomed  him  in  the  most  cordial 
manner.  The  position  of  Doctor  Breckin 
ridge,  a  Southern  man,  upon  the  war  had 
become  well  known  throughout  the  coun 
try  by  means  of  his  vigorous  articles 
appearing  in  the  Danville  Quarterly  Re 
view  in  favor  of  the  Union  cause.  He 


38 


Abraham  Lincoln 


differed  from  the  President  touching  the 
policy  of  his  Emancipation  Proclamation 
and  had  published  his  dissenting  views, 
but  he  remained  his  firm  friend  notwith 
standing  this  difference,  and  was  heartily 
in  favor  of  his  renomination  at  Baltimore. 
All  this  the '  President  well  knew  and 
hence,  apparently,  his  eagerness  to  see 
the  letter  which  my  father  had.  As  he 
was  more  familiar  with  the  handwriting 
and  as  the  letter  was  addressed  to  him, 
he  proposed  to  read  it.  "No,"  said  the 
President,  "let  me  take  it;  I  have  never 
seen  a  letter  from  the  old  Kentucky 
patriarch,  and  I  wish  to  see  how  he 
writes."  He  read  the  letter  with  great 
earnestness.  It  called  the  President's  at 
tention  to  what  the  writer  in  several  par 
ticulars  deemed  essential  to  the  political 
welfare  of  Kentucky.  The  President 
conversed  for  some  time  with  my  father 
on  his  views  of  the  same  questions,  and 
with  great  interest  on  the  affairs  of  what 
he  said  he  was  proud  to  call  his  native 
State,  declaring  that  its  course  had  often 
embarrassed  and  sometimes  puzzled  him, 
and  added:  "Tell  the  old  doctor  that 
each  of  his  suggestions  shall  be  remem 
bered  and  complied  with  as  far  as  pos 
sible;  and  especially  tell  him  that  when 
he  comes  to  the  Convention  he  must  call 
and  see  me."  They  had  never  met  up  to 
that  time. 

It  thus  seems  that  even  Mr.  Lincoln 
was^  politically  human,  and  that  he  at 
tended  to  the  repair  of  his  political  fences 
while  distinguished  visitors  waited,  how 
ever  impatiently,  in  the  anteroom. 

One  small  incident  in  the  life  of  Mr. 
Lincoln  has  always  been  a  great  comfort 
to  me.  I  was  not  present  at  the  time  it 
occurred,  so  I  will  give  it  in  the  words  of 
my  father,  written  soon  after  and  found 
among  his  papers: 

On  one  occasion  the  President  gave  me  what 
he  was  pleased  to  call  an  account  of  his  "progress 
in  spelling."  The  incident  reveals  the  remarkable 
simplicity  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  and  the  open-hearted- 
ness  of  the  man.  It  shows,  moreover,  his  freedom 
of  intercourse  with  a  private  citizen,  divested  of 
that  stateliness  of  which  some  of  his  predecessors 
who  have  held  his  high  office  might  have  found  it 
more  difficult  to  relieve  themselves. 

Having  some  business  at  the  War  Department, 
and  knowing  that  my  success  depended  on  the 
President's  favor,  and  not  being  personally  ac 
quainted  with  the  Secretary  of  War  [Edwin  M. 
Stan  ton  and  Dr.  Stanton  were  not  relatives],  I 


called  on  the  President  for  his  aid.  At  this  inter 
view  no  visitor  was  present  but  myself.  After 
stating  my  case  and  finding  the  President  favor 
ably  disposed,  I  asked  him  if  he  would  speak  to 
the  Secretary  in  my  behalf.  "Certainly  I  will," 
said  he.  Pausing  a  moment,  he  added:  "Or, 
what  is  better,  I  will  write  him  a  note.  Sit  down 
and  I  will  write  it  now." 

He  went  to  his  desk  and  began  writing,  and 
in  a  few  moments  turned  to  me,  looking  up  over 
his  spectacles,  and  without  my  having  the  least 
premonition  of  what  was  coming,  said: 

"Ob-sta-cle:  is  that  the  way  you  spell  ob 
stacle?" 

I  was  so  disconcerted  at  this  sudden  and  unex 
pected  question  that  for  the  instant  I  was  silent. 
Noticing  my  confusion,  he  laid  down  his  pen  and 
turned  his  revolving  chair  so  as  to  face  me,  when, 
having  recovered  myself,  I  said:  "I  believe  that 
is  right,  Mr.  President." 

He  then  said:  "When  I  write  an  official  letter, 
I  want  to  be  sure  it  is  correct,  and  I  find  I  am 
sometimes  puzzled  to  know  how  to  spell  the  most 
common  word." 

On  my  stating  that  this  was  not  an  unusual  ex 
perience  with  many  persons,  he  said:  "I  found 
about  .twenty  years  ago,  that  I  had  been  spelling 
one  word  wrong  all  my  life  up  to  that  time." 

"What  word  is  that,  Mr.  President?"  I  in 
quired.  "It  is  very"  he  said.  "I  used  always  to 
spell  it  with  two  r's — v-e-r-r-y.  And  then  there 
was  another  word  which  I  'found  I  had  been 
spelling  wrong  until  I  came  here  to  the  White 
House." 

On  my  inquiry  for  the  word,  he  said: 

"It  is  opportunity.  I  had  always  spelled  it 
op-per-tunity." 

In  relating  each  of  these  instances  of  his  "prog 
ress  in  spelling,"  as  he  called  it,  the  President 
laughed  heartily,  spoke  of  the  importance  of  giv 
ing  attention  to  orthography,  and  then  finished 
his  letter  to  the  Secretary  of  War,  and  handed  it 
to  me  with  a  warm  expression  of  hope  that  my 
mission  might  be  successful.  It  was. 

The  last  time  I  met  Mr.  Lincoln  in  his 
private  office  at  the  White  House,  and 
spent  some  time  with  him,  was  in  June, 
1864,  though  I  saw  him  and  met  him 
many  times  afterward. 

We  called  in  company  with  the  Honor 
able  Jesse  L.  Williams,  of  Indiana,  a  few 
days  previous  to  the  time  of  the  meeting 
of  the  Baltimore  Convention,  at  which 
Mr.  Lincoln  was  nominated  for  a  second 
term.  Judge  Williams  was  an  old-time 
personal  friend  of  the  President.  He  had 
been  a  member  of  the  Chicago  Conven 
tion  when  Mr.  Lincoln  was  first  nomi 
nated,  and  was  now  earnestly  working  to 
the  end  that  he  might  be  the  nominee  at 
Baltimore.  Judge  Williams  held  the  of 
fice,  under  Mr.  Lincoln's  appointment,  of 
government  director  of  the  Union  Pacific 
Railway.  He  was  on  the  most  intimate 


Abraham   Lincoln 


39 


and  familiar  terms  with  the  President, 
and  their  social  intercourse  was  always  of 
the  most  free  and  cordial  character. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  White  House 
we  were  admitted  at  once  into  the  Presi 
dent's  room.  When  we  entered  there 
were  two  other  gentlemen  present,  one  a 
Mr.  Ferry  of  Illinois,  a  delegate  to  the 
Baltimore  Convention.  Who  the  other 
was  I  have  forgotten,  but  they  soon  de 
parted,  leaving  us  alone  with  Mr.  Lin 
coln. 

This  particular  call  by  Judge  Williams 
and  my  father  was  for  the  purpose  of  dis 
cussing  two  special  features  of  the  then 
political  and  military  situation,  of  deep 
interest  to  them  at  that  time:  the  coming 
Baltimore  Convention,  and  certain  mat 
ters  connected  with  the  military  govern 
ment  of  the  border  States,  particularly 
Kentucky  and  Missouri,  as  to  the  acts 
and  preaching  of  some  ministers  of  the 
church  in  those  States. 

My  father  was  a  clergyman  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church,  and  at  that  time 
was  professor  of  pastoral  theology  and 
church  government  in  the  Danville  Theo 
logical  Seminary,  Kentucky,  and  was  in 
the  midst  of,  and  directly  connected  with, 
much  of  the  troubles  and  discussions  in 
those  border  States.  Judge  Williams  was 
an  elder  in  the  same  church. 

Again  I,  of  course,  did  not  enter  into 
the  conversation  or  discussions  of  the  in 
terview,  but  I  sat  within  five  feet  of  the 
President,  and  again  had  the  opportunity 
to  study  at  close  range  his  manner,  the 
expression  of  his  face,  and  every  move 
ment  of  his  body  while  sitting  and  also 
while  pacing  the  floor.  The  whole  scene 
was  indelibly  stamped  on  my  memory, 
and  I  clearly  remember  not  only  every 
thing  directly  connected  with  the  Presi 
dent  but  also  many  of ;  the  details  of  the 
conversation.  Besides  this,  I  have  other 
notes  of  my  father's  and  the  exact  words 
quoted  here  from  Mr.  Lincoln  are  taken 
from  those  old  notes. 

On  the  way  up  from  Willard's  Hotel 
Judge  Williams  said  to  my  father  that  he 
had  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Lincoln's  nomina 
tion  at  Baltimore,  either  by  acclamation 
or  on  the  first  ballot,  notwithstanding  the 
alienation  of  some  prominent  Republicans 
in  Congress  and  elsewhere.  He  said,  how 
ever,  he  thought  he  would  have  a  little 


amusement  and  "rally  the  President"  on 
the  subject. 

As  soon  as  we  were  seated  he  inquired  of 
him  as  to  his  prospects  before  the  coming 
convention.  The  President  replied  in  his 
quiet,  undisturbed  manner  that  he  was 
not  at  all  anxious  about  the  result;  that 
he  wanted  the  people  to  be  satisfied,  but 
as  he  "had  his  hand  in,"  he  should  like  to 
keep  his  place  until  the  war  was  finished ; 
and  yet,  if  the  people  wished  a  change  in 
the  presidency,  he  had  no  complaint  to 
make. 

'  "But,"  said  the  judge,  with  a  smile 
and  a  peculiar  twinkle  of  his  eye,  "the 
Convention  may  be  in  doubt  about  your 
policy  on  some  important  matters  as  to 
conducting  the  war;  and  if  so,  what 
then?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  judge?"  said  the 
President. 

"Well,  Mr.  President,  I  will  be  frank 
with  you,"  said  the  judge,  in  a  half -serious 
tone:  "I  have  just  been  attending  a  very 
dignified  and  earnest  convention  where 
your  opinions  on  the  conduct  of  the  war 
have  been  somewhat  canvassed,  and  I 
found  the  body  seriously  divided  in  senti 
ment  as  to  your  position  on  one  important 
question." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  President,  "you 
surprise  me.  But  out  with  it.  Tell  us  all 
about -it." 

"I  will.  I  have  been  attending  the 
meeting  of  the  general  assembly  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church,  in  Newark,  New 
Jersey,  which  has  just  adjourned;  and 
while  there  a  very  animated  discussion 
took  place  about  your  views  on  a  certain 
matter  concerning  the  conduct  of  the 
war,  and  the  body  seemed  unable  to  agree 
as  to  where  you  stood." 

"That  is  strange  !  But  how  came  they 
to  concern  themselves  on  the  subject  r*", 

"You  know,"  said  the  judge,  "you 
wrote  a  letter  to  General  Curtis,  when  he 
was  in  command  at  St.  Louis,  in  reply  to 
his  inquiry  about  how  he  should  deal  with 
certain  disloyal  preachers  who  were 
troubling  Missouri." 

Some  time  before,  it  will  be  remem 
bered,  Doctor  McPheeters,  a  Presby 
terian  clergyman  of  St.  Louis,  had  been' 
ordered  out  of  Missouri  by  General  Cur 
tis  for  alleged  acts  of  disloyalty  to  the 
United  States  Government.  The  general 


40 


Abraham   Lincoln 


then  wrote  to  the  President  for  instruc 
tions  in  similar  cases.  The  letter  of  Mr. 
Lincoln  in  reply  was  the  one  in  which  he 
had  used  the  phrase — which  afterward 
became  famous  by  its  frequent  quotation 
—that  "  the  government  could  not  afford 
to  run  the  churches."  The  Presbytery 
of  St.  Louis  had  taken  some  action  in  re 
gard  to  Doctor  McPheeters  and  his  case 
had  gone  up  to  the  general  assembly, 
which  met  in  Newark  in  May,  1864. 
The  President's  letter  to  General  Curtis 
was  read  there,  on  the  trial  of  Doctor 
McPheeters,  and  this  was  the  letter  to 
which  Judge  Williams  alluded. 

"Yes,  I  remember  that  letter,"  said 
the  President. 

"Well,"  said  the  judge,  "on  the  trial 
of  Doctor  McPheeters  by  the  general  as 
sembly,  your  letter  to  General  Curtis 
was  read.  But  the  curious  part  of  the 
affair  was  this:  One  party  read  one  por 
tion  of  your  letter  and  claimed  that  the 
President  was  on  their  side,  and  the  other 
party  read  another  portion  of  the  same 
letter  and  claimed  that  the  President  was 
on  their  side.  So  it  seems,  Mr.  President, 
that  it  is  not  so  easy  to  tell  where  you 
stand." 

At  this  Mr.  Lincoln  joined  in  a  hearty 
laugh,  not  one  of  his  vivid,  comprehensive 
smiles,  but  a  real  outspoken  hearty  laugh, 
and  then  told  the  following  story: 

"That  reminds  me  forcibly,"  he  said, 
"of  what  occurred  many  years  ago  in 
Illinois.  A  farmer  and  his  son  were  out 
in  the  woods  one  day,  hunting  a  sow.  At 
length,  after  a  long  and  fruitless  search, 
they  came  to  what  they  call  'a  branch' 
out  there,  where  they  found  hog  tracks 
and  rootings-out  for  some  distance  on 
both  sides  of  the  branch.  'Now,  John,' 
said  the  old  man,  'you  take  up  on  this 
side  of  the  branch  and  I'll  go  up  t'other, 
for  I  believe  the  old  critter  is  on  both 
sides.'" 

Of  course,  the  rest  of  us  laughed  hearti 
ly,  but  Mr.  Lincoln,  as  I  distinctly  recall 
it,  only  smiled.  As  his  story  was  drawing 
to  a  close,  his  face  lit  up  and  a  faint  smile 
began  to  appear  which  increased  at  the 
end  and  broadened  as  the  others  laughed. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mr.  Lincoln  was 
so  depressed  by  the  actuality  of  the  war 
that  he  never  really  laughed  outright. 
That  is  a  mistake.  I  saw  him  and  heard 


him  laugh  heartily  and  loudly  more  than 
once  during  those  darkest  days.  To  me 
he  had  three  distinct  smiles.  The  first 
was  when  speaking  he  seemed  to  wish 
to  impress  you  with  the  interest  he  had 
in  you.  This  smile  was  very  faint,  but 
beautiful  and  bewitching.  The  second 
was  much  more  open  and  broad,  and 
when  listening  to  another  speak.  The 
laughter  came  when  that  other  turned  a 
humorous  point,  and  particularly  when 
that  point  was  turned  against  the  Presi 
dent.  Of  the  third  smile  I  shall  speak  in 
a  moment. 

It  was  not  my  pleasure  to  know  Mrs. 
Lincoln  personally,  but  I  saw  her  many 
times  under  varied  circumstances.  She 
was  a  much  maligned  and  misunderstood 
woman. 

For  many  months,  during  the  war,  I 
acted  as  a  volunteer  visiting  day  nurse  in 
the  hospitals  in  Washington  and  George 
town.  I  assisted  the  regular  nurses,  and 
occasionally  helped  the  surgeons,  and 
did  my  little  bit  to  cheer  the  sick  and 
wounded.  So  that  I  saw  some  things 
that  the  public  could  not  see.  Many 
times  I  saw  Mrs.  Lincoln  come  to  those 
hospitals,  go  through  the  wards  distribut 
ing  flowers,  little  gifts,  kind  words,  smiles, 
and  sympathy  to  the  suffering  heroes. 
And  these  little  acts  were  done  in  a  man 
ner  that,  it  would  seem  to  me,  they  could 
not  have  been  done  except  by  one  whose 
whole  heart  was  in  the  cause  and  in  the 
same  way  as  that  of  her  husband,  and 
whose  love  and  active  help  were  given 
freely  and  sincerely  to  those  suffering 
boys  in  blue. 

It  was  on  similar  occasions  that  I  was 
enabled  to  note  that  third  smile  on  Mr. 
Lincoln's  face,  of  which  I  have  spoken. 
He  also  came  to  the  hospitals  frequently, 
sometimes  with  his  wife,  but  usually 
alone,  when  I  saw  him. 

As  he  alighted  from  his  carriage  and 
entered  the  building,  particularly  toward 
the  end  of  the  war,  I  was  impressed  by  the 
sadness  of  his  countenance.  It  seemed 
as  though  all  the  suffering  in  that  hos 
pital  had  come  out  to  meet  him  and  had 
entered  into  his  face.  As  he  went  along 
the  rows  of  cots,  pausing  here  and  there 
and  leaning  over  some  especially  suffer 
ing  lad  to  speak  a  kind  word  or  two,  the 
sadness  of  his  face  did  not  entirely  dis- 


Abraham  Lincoln 


41 


appear,  but  over  it  came  aJight  and  such 
a  bright,  cheering,  though  gentle  smile 
that  his  whole  countenance  was  illumined 
by  something  more  than  human  interest, 
as  sympathy  and  love  came  out  to  the 
boy,  from  his  very  soul.  Those  were  some 
of  the  times  when  I  felt  that  no  one  could 
see  in  that  charming  face  anything  ex 
cept  beauty. 

On  the  night  of  April  14,  1865,  I  was 
nowhere  near  Ford's  Theatre.  We  were 
living  then  in  the  old  home  on  North  B 
Street,  Capitol  Hill.  Everything  was  so 
quiet  there  that  we  did  not  hear  of  the 
tragedy  of  the  night  until  the  next  morn 
ing.  As  soon  as  possible  I  went  down  to 
the  neighborhood  of  the  theatre.  What 
surprised  me  most  was  the  smallness  of 
the  crowd  gathered  there  at  that  time. 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  moving  about  close 
to  the  steps  of  the  house  opposite,  where 
the  remains  of  the  President  still  lay.  I 
stood  very  close  to  those  steps  until 
finally  there  came  out  that  little  band  of 
mourners  and  gently  placed  the  body  of 
the  murdered  President  in  the  hearse. 

What  surprised  me  most,  as  I  think  of 
that  day,  was  the  small  number  of  fol 
lowers  that  accompanied  that  sad  little 
procession.  There  were  so  few  people 
that  followed,  I  was  able  to  walk  close  to 
the  carriages  and  at  times  I  was  so  near 
that  I  could  have  laid  my  hand  on  the 
wheel  of  the  hearse.  I  followed  all  the 
way  to  the  White  House  grounds.  Nor 
did  the  crowd  increase  to  any  great  pro 
portions,  as  we  neared  the  end. 

At  the  east  gate  of  the  White  House, 
there  were  soldiers  and  no  one  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  grounds.  I  had  gone  a 


little  ahead  and  stood  on  the  pavement 
close  to  the  gate.  This  absence  of  a 
great  crowd  on  such  an  occasion  was  not 
due  to  any  want  of  interest  or  sympathy, 
but  was  rather  caused,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
by  the  terrible  shock  that  had  passed  over 
the  city,  and  because  every  one  was  so 
depressed  that  but  few  had  the  desire  to 
rush  forward  to  form  or  join  a  crowd. 
Those  on  the  sidewalks  stopped  and  with 
bowed  and  uncovered  heads  stood  still 
in  silence  and  grief.  That  there  were  so 
few  gathered  at  the  gate  of  the  White 
House  grounds,  this  little  incident  will 
show. 

I  had  pushed  forward  and  taken  my 
place  on  the  sidewalk  close  to  the  carriage 
way,  and  turning  to  look  at  the  little 
funeral  cortege  approaching,  I  saw  an 
old  negro  woman,  a  typical  Southern 
cook,  her  head  wrapped  in  a  red-and-yel- 
low  bandanna,  and  her  large  blue-and- 
white  kitchen  apron  still  on,  come  running 
across  the  street.  She  passed  in  front  of 
the  hearse  and  had  no  difficulty  in  taking 
her  place  beside  me  within  two  feet  of. 
where  it  would  pass. 

Even  at  that  early  hour  the  negroes 
of  the  capital  had  been  stunned,  then 
driven  to  almost  frenzy,  by  the  rumor  that 
now  Mr.  Lincoln  was  dead  they  would  all 
be  put  back  into  slavery. 

As  the  little  procession  passed  in,  great 
tears  rolled  down  the  cheeks  of  that  old 
negress,  and  she  gathered  her  big  apron 
over  her  face  and  sobbed  aloud.  Then 
there  seemed  to  come  to  her  soul  a  great 
light  and  a  great  courage.  She  dropped 
her  apron  and  said  in  a  firm  though 
broken  voice:  "They  needn't  to  crow 
yet.  God  ain't  dead!" 


EACH    IN    HIS   GENERATION 
By  Maxwell  Struthers  Burt 

Author  of  "John  O'May,"  etc. 

ILLUSTRATION  BY  HARRY  TOWNSEND 


ERY    afternoon    at    four 
o'clock,  except   when  the 
weather  was   very  bad — 
autumn,  winter,  and  spring 
— old  Mr.  Henry  McCain 
drove  up  to  the  small,  dis- 
d  front  door,  in  the  small, 
nable  street  in  which  lived 
homas  Denby;  got  out, 
marble  steps,  rang  the 
i  into  the  narrow 
im    turquoise-blue 
Us,  an  etching 
n — by  a  trim 
,  at  least, 
ed  the  door 
the 

cjuickly, 
had 


creet,  poli 
discreet,  fasK 
fairly  old  Mrs? 
went  up  the 
bell,  and  was  ad 
but  charming  hall 
velvet  panelled  into  t 
or  two:  Whistler,  Bn 
parlor-maid.  Ten  genera^ 
of  trim  parlor-maids  had  o 
for  Mr.  McCain.  They 
sparkling  victoria  change,  not  t 
to  a  plum-colored  limousine; 
seen  Mr.  McCain  become  perhaps 
thinner,  the  color  in  his  cheeks  beco 
trifle  more  confined  and  fixed,  his 
hair  grow  somewhat  sparser,  but  beyon 
that  they  had  seen  very  little  indeed,  al 
though,  when  they  had  left  Mr.  McCain 
in  the  drawing-room  with  the  announce 
ment  that  Mrs.  Denby  would  be  down 
immediately,  and  were  once  again  seeking 
the  back  of  the  house,  no  doubt  their  eye 
brows,  blonde,  brunette,  or  red,  apexed 
to  a  questioning  angle. 

In  the  manner  of  youth  the  parlor 
maids  had  come,  worked,  fallen  in  love 
and  departed,  but  Mr/McCain,  in  the 
manner  of  increasing  age,  had  if  anything 
grown  more  faithful  and  exact  to  the  mo 
ment.  If  he  were  late  the  fraction  of  five 
minutes,  one  suspected  that  he  regretted 
it,  that  it  carne^  near  to  spoiling  his  entire 
afternoon.  He  was  not  articulate,  but 
occasionally"  he  expressed  an  idea  and  the 
most  common  was  that  he  "  liked  his 
things  as  he  liked  them";  his  eggs,  in 
other  Words,  boiled  just  so  long,  no  more 
— after  sixty  years  of  inner  debate  on  the 
subject  he  had  apparently  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  boiled  eggs  were  the  only 
42 


kind  of  eggs  permissible — his  life  punctual' 
and  serene.  The  smallest  manifestation 
of  unexpectedness  disturbed  him.  Obvi 
ously  that  was  one  reason  why,  after  a 
youth  not  altogether  constant./ne  had 
become  so  utterly  constant  wjlere  Mrs. 
Denby  was  concerned.  She  r>ad  a  quality 
of  perenniality,  charming  arid  assuring, 
even  to  each  strand  of  her/  delicate  brown 
hair.  Grayness  should  have  been  creeping 
upon  her,  but  it  was  not.  It  was  doubt 
ful  if  Mr.  McCain  pe/fnitted  himself,  even 
secretly,  to  wonder^why.  Effects,  fastid 
ious  and  constant  were  all  he  demanded 
from  life.  / 

This  had  /been  going  on  for  twenty 
years — this  afternoon  call;  this  slow  drive 
afterward  In  the  park;  this  return  by 
dusk  to  the  shining  small  house  in  the 
shining  small  street;  the  good-by,  reti 
cently  ardent,  as  if  it  were  not  fully  Mr. 
McCain's  intention  to  return  again  in  the 

.evening.     Mr.  McCain  would  kiss  Mrs. 

*Denby's  hand — slim,  lovely,  with  a  single 
gorgeous  sapphire  upon  the  third  finger. 
"  GHod-by,  my  dear,"  he  would  say,  "you 
have  given  me  the  most  delightful  after 
noon  (OK^my  life."  For  a  moment  Mrs. 
Denby's  Hand  would  linger  on  the  bowed 
head;  then^Mr.  McCain  would  straighten 
up,  smile,  square  his  shoulders  in  their 
smart,  young-lhoking  coat,  and  depart  to 
his  club  or  the  larre,  softly-lit  house  where 
he  dwelt  alone.  Ar^inner  he  would  drink 
two  glasses  of  chahrpagne.  Before  he 
drained  the  last  sip  of  the  second  pouring 
he  would  hold  the  glassNm  to  the  fire,  so 
that  the  bronze  coruscations  at  the  heart 
of  the  wine  glowed  like  fire&es  in  a  gold 
dusk.  One  imagined  him  \saying  to 
himself:  "A  perfect  woman!  ^  perfect 
woman — God  bless  her  ! "  Saynig  "  God 
bless"  any  one,  mind  you,  with  a  dhtinct 
warming  of  the  heart,  but  a  thoroughly 
late- Victorian  disbelief  in  any  god  to  bless. 
...  At  least,  you  thought  as  much. 
And,  of  course,  one  had  not  the  slight- 


Each  in   His  Generation 


43 


5t  notion  whether  he — old  Mr.  Henry 
[cCain — was  aware  that  this  twenty 
ye\rs  of  devotion  on  his  part  to  Mrs.  Den- 
by  \toas  the  point  upon  which  had  come  to 
f ocus\he  not  inconsiderable  contempt  and 
hatred\pr  him  of  his  nephew  Adrian. 

It  wasNan  obvious  convergence,  this  de 
votion  of  all  the  traits  which  composed,  so 
Adrian  imagined,  the  despicable  soul  that 
lay  beneathids  uncle's  unangled  exteri 
or:  undeviatinV  self-indulgence;  secrecy; 
utter  selfishness-he  was  selfish  even  to 
the  woman  he  waksupposed  to  love;  that 
is,  if  he  was  capable\pf  loving  any  one  but 
himself — a  bland  hytoocrisy;  an  unthink 
ing  conformation  to  \he  dictates  of  an 
unthinking  world.  TheJist  could  be  mul 
tiplied.  But  to  sum  it  uto,  here  was  epi 
tomized,  beautifully,  concretely,  the  main 
and  minor  vices  of  a  generation  for  which 
Adrian  found  little  pity  in  his  heart;  a 
generation  brittle  as  ice;  a  generation  of 
secret  diplomacy;  a  generation  that  in  its 
youth  had  covered  a  lack  of  bathing  by 
a  vast  amount  of  perfume.  ThaK  was 
it— !  That  expressed  it  perfectly !  SThe 
just  summation  !  Camellias,  and  double 
intentions  in  speech,  and  unnecessary  ret\ 
cences,  and  refusals  to  meet  the  truth,  andX 
a  deliberate  hiding  of  uglinesses ! 

Most  of  the  time  Adrian  was  too  busy 
to  think  about  his  uncle  at  all — he  was  a 
very  busy  man  with  his  writing:  journal 
istic  writing;  essays,  political  reviews, 
propaganda — and  because  he  was  busy 
he  was  usually  well-content,  and  not 
uncharitable,  except  professionally;  but 
once  a  month  it  was  his  duty  to  dine 
with  his  uncle,  and  then,  for  the  rest 
of  the  night,  he  was.  disturbed,  and 
awoke  the  next  morning  with  the  dusty 
feeling  in  his  head  of  a  man  who  has 
been  slightly  drunk;  Old  wounds  were 
recalled,  old  scars -inflamed;  a  childhood 
in  which  his  uncle's  figure  had  represented 
to  him  the  terrors  of  sarcasm  and  repres 
sion;  a  youth  in  which,  as  his  guardian, 
his  uncle  had  deprecated  all  first  fine  hot- 
bloodednesses  and  enthusiasms;  a  young 
manhood,  in  which  he  had  been  told  cyni 
cally  that  the  ways  of  society  were  good 
ways, ^nd  that  the  object  of  life  was  mate 
rial  advancement;  advide  which  had  been 
followed  by  the  stimulus  of  an  utter  re 
fusal  to  assist  financially  except  where 
Absolutely  necessary.  There  had  been 


willingness,  you  understand,  to  provide 
gentleman's  education,  but  no  willingness 
to  provide  beyond  that  any  of  a  gen 
tleman's  perquisites.  That  much  of  his 
early  success  had  been  due  to  this  heroic 
upbringing,  Adrian  was  too  honest  not  to 
admit,  but  then — by  God,  it  had  been 
hard  !  All  the  color  of  youth.!  No  time 
to  dream — except  sorely !  Some  warping, 
some  perversion  !  A  gasping,  heart-break 
ing  knowledge  that  you  could  not  possibly 
keep  up  with  the  people  with  whom,  para 
doxically  enough,  you  were  Supposed  to 
spend  your  leisure  hours.  Here  was  the 
making  of  a  radical.  And  yet,  despite  all 
this,  Adrian  dined  with  his  uncle  once  a 
month. 

The  mere  fact  that  this  was  so,  that  it 
could  be  so,  enraged  him.  It  seemed  a 
renunciation  of  all  he  affirmed;  an  implicit 
falsehood.  He  would  have  liked  very 
much  to  have  got  to  his  feet,  standing 
firmly  on  his  two  long,  well-made  legs, 
and  have  once  and  for  all  delivered  him 
self  of  a  final  philippic.  The  philippic 
would  have  ended  something  like  this: 

"And  this,  sir,  is  the  last  time  I  sacrifice 
any  of  my  good  hours  to  you.  Not  be 
cause  you  are  old,  and  therefore  think  you 
^re  wise,  when  you  are  not;  not  because 
y\u  are  blind  and  besotted  and  damned— 
a  tWik  of  a  tree  filled  with  dry  rot  that 
presently  a  clean  wind  will  blow  away; 
not  because  your  opinions,  and  the  opin 
ions  of\ll  like  you,  have  long  ago  been 
proven  me  lies  and  idiocies  that  they 
are;  not  eVen  because  you  haven't  one 
single  real  f^ght  left  to  live — I  haven't 
come  to  tell  you  these  things,  although 
they  are  true,  for  you  are  past  hope  and 
there  is  no  use  wasting  words  upon  you; 
I  have  come  to  telXyou  that  you  bore  me 
inexpressibly.  (ThM  would  be  the  most 
dreadful  revenge  of  afL  He  could  see  his 
uncle's  face !)  That  you  have  a  genius 
for  taking  the  wrong  sioe  of  every  ques 
tion,  and  I  can  no  longe\  endure  it.  I 
dissipate  my  time.  Goodnight!" 

He  wouldn't  have  said  itVn  quite  so 
stately  a  way,  possibly;  the\  sentences 
would  not  have  been  quite  so\;ounded, 
but  the  context  would  have  b\en  the 
same. 

Glorious;  but  it  wasn't  said.  Instead, 
once  a  month,  he  got  into  his  dinner- 
jacket,  brushed  his  hair  very  sleekl 


\    44 


Each  in   His  Generation 


Valked  six  blocks,  said  good-evening  to 
his  uncle's  butler,  and  went  on  back  to 
theXlibrary,  where,  in  a  room  rich  with 
costly  bindings,  and  smelling  pleasantly 
of  leather,  and  warmly  yellow  with  the 
light  of\wo  shaded  lamps,  he  would  find 
his  uncle  reading  before  a  crackling  wood 
fire.  What  followed  was  almost  a  for 
mula,  an  exquisite  presentation  of  stately 
manners,  an  "exquisite  avoidance  of  any 
topic  which  migjit  cause  a  real  discussion. 
The  dinner  was  fh variably  gentle,  persua 
sive,  a  thoughtful  gastronomic  achieve 
ment.  Heaven  might  become  confused 
about  its  weather,  and  about  wars,  and 
things  like  that,  but  Mr.  McCain  never 
became  confused  about  -his  menus.  He 
had  a  habit  of  commending  wine.  "Try 
this  claret,  my  dear  fellow,  I  want  your 
opinion.  .  .  .  A  drop  of  this  Napoleonic 
brandy  won't  hurt  you  a  bit."  He  even 
sniffed  the  bouquet  before  each  sip; 
passed,  that  is,  the  glass  under  his  nose 
and  then  drank.  But  Adrian,  with  a  pre 
conceived  image  of  the  personality  back 
of  this,  and  the  memory  of  too  many 
offences  busy  in  his  mind,  saw  nothing 
quaint  or  amusing.  His  gorge  rose. 
Damn  his  uncle's  wines,  and  his  mush 
rooms,  and  his  soft-footed  servants,  and 
his  house  of  nuances  and  evasions,  and  his 
white  grapes,  large  and  outwardly  per 
fect,  and  inwardly  sentimental  as  the  gen 
eration  whose  especial  fruit  they  were. 
As  for  himself,  he  had  a  recollection  of  ten 
years  of  poverty  after  leaving  college;  a 
recollection  of  sweat  and  indignities;  he 
had  also  a  recollection  of  some  poor  peo 
ple  whom  he  had  known.  / 

Afterward,  when  the  dinner  was  over, 
Adrian  would  go  hom/e  and  awake  his 
wife,  Cecil,  who,  with  the  brutal  honesty 
of  an  honest  woman,  also  some  of  the  un- 
generosity,  had  earfy  in  her  married  life 
flatly  refused  any  share  in  the  ceremonies 
described.  Cecif  would  lie  in  her  small 
white  bed,  the/white  of  her  boudoir-cap 
losing  itself  in  the  white  of  the  pillow,  a 
little  sleepy -and  a  little  angrily  perplexed 
at  the  perpetual  Jesuitical  philosophy  of 
the  male/  "If  you  feel  that  way,"  she 
would  #sk,  "why  do  you  go  there,  then? 
Why  'flon't  you  banish  your  uncle  ut 
terly?  "  She  asked  this  not  without  mal 
ice/ her  long,  violet,  Slavic  eyes  widely 
Open,  and  her  red  mouth,  a  trifle  too  large, 


perhaps,  a  trifle  cruel,  fascinatingly  inter 
rogative  over  her  white  teeth.  She  loved 
Adrian  and  had  at  times,  therefore,  the 
right  and  desire  to  torture  him.  She  knew 
perfectly  well  why  he  went.  He  was  his 
uncle's  heir,  and  until  such  time  as  money 
and  other  anachronisms  of  the  present  so 
cial  system  were  done  away  with,  there 
was  no  use  throwing  a  fortune  into  the 
gutter,  even  if  by  your  own  efforts  you 
were  making  an  income  just  sufficiently 
large  to  keep  up  with  the  increased  cost 
of  living. 

Sooner  or  later  Adrian's  mind  reverted 
to  Mrs.  Denby.  This  was  usually  after 
he  had  been  in  bed  and  had  been  thinking 
for  a  while  in  the  darkness.  He  could  not 
understand  Mrs.  Denby.  She  affronted 
his  modern  habit  of  thought. 

"The  whole  thing  is  so  silly  and  ad 
ventitious  !" 

"What  thing?" 

Adrian  was  aware  that  his  wife  knew 
exactly  of  what  he  was  talking,  but  he  had 
come  to  expect  the  question.  "Mrs. 
Denby  and  my  uncle."  He  would  grow 
rather  gently  cross.  "It  has  always  re 
minded  me  of  those  present-day  sword 
and-cloak  romances  fat  business  men  used 
to  write  about  ten  years  ago  and  sell  so 
enormously — there's  an  atmosphere  of  un 
necessary  intrigue.  What's  it  all  about  ? 
Here's  the  point !  Why,  if  she  felt  this 
way  about  things,  didn't  she  divorce 
that  gentle  drunkard  of  a  husband  of 
hers  years  ago  and  marry  my  uncle  out 
right  and  honestly?  Or  why,  if  she 
couldn't  get  a"  divorce — which  she  could— 
didn't  she  leave  her  hubsand  and  go  with 
my  uncle  ?  Anything  in  the  open  !  Make 
a  break — have  some  courage  of  her  opin 
ions!  Smash  things;  build  them  up 
again !  Thank  God  nowadays,  at  least, 
we  have  come  to  believe  in  the  cleanness 
of  surgery  rather  than  the  concealing  pal 
liatives  of  medicine.  W&re  no  longer — 
we  modern  people — afraid  of  the  world; 
and  the  world  can  never  hurt  for  any 
length  of  time  any  one  who  will  stand  up 
to  it  and  tell  it  courageously  to  go  to  hell. 
No !  It  comes  back  and  licks  hands. 

"  I'll  tell  you  why.  My  uncle  and  Mrs. 
Denby  are  the  typical  moral  cowards  of 
their  generation.  There's  selfishness,  too. 
What  a  travesty  of  love !  Of  course 
there's  scandal,  a  perpetual  scandal;  but 


Each  in   His  Generation 


45 


a  hidden,  sniggering  scandal  they 
t't  have  to  meet  face  to  face;  and  that's 
allHhey  ask  of  life,  they,  and  people  like 
thenV- never  to  have  to  meet  anything 
face  t\  face.  So  long  as  they  can  bury 
their  heads  like  ostriches!  .  .  .  Faugh!" 
There  woxild  be  a  moment's  silence;  then 
Adrian  wotijd  complete  his  thought.  "  In 
my  uncle's  taise,"  he  would  grumble  in 
the  darkness,\"  one  phase  of  the  selfish 
ness  is  obvious^  He  couldn't  even  get 
himself  original!^  I  suppose,  to  face  the 
inevitable  matter-of-fact  moments  of 
marriage.  It  began\when  he  was  middle- 
aged,  a  bachelor — I  suppose  he  wants  the 
sort  of  Don  Juan,  eighteen-eighty,  per 
petual  sort  of  romance  that  doesn't  exist 
outside  the  brains  of  himself  and  his  like. 
.  .  .  Camellias!"  \ 

Usually  he  tried  to  stir  up  argument 
with  his  wife,  who  in  these  matters  agreed 
with  him  utterly;  even  more  than  agreed 
with  him,  since  she  was  the  ^escaped 
daughter  of  rich  and  stodgy  people.,  and 
had  insisted  upon  earning  her  own  liv 
ing  by  portrait-painting.  Theoretically, 
therefore,  she  was,  of  course,  an  anar 
chist.  But  at  moments  like  the  present 
her  silent  assent  and  the  aura  of  slight 
weariness  over  an  ancient  subject  which 
emanated  from  her  in  the  dusk,  affronted 
Adrian  as  much  as  positive  opposition. 

"Why  don't  you  try  to  understand 
me?" 

"I  do,  dearest!" — a  pathetic  attempt 
at  eager  agreement. 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  do,  why  is  the  tone 
of  your  voice  like  that?  You  know  by 
now  what  I  think.  I'm  not  talking  con 
vention  ;  I  believe  there  are  no  laws  higher 
than  the  love  of  a  man  for  a  woman.  It 
should  seek  expression  as  a  seed  seeks 
sunlight.  I'm  talking  about  honesty; 
bravery;  a  willingness  to  accept  the  con 
sequences  of  one's  acts  and  come  through; 
about  the  intention  to  sacrifice  for  love 
just  what  has  to  be  sacrificed.  What's 
the  use  of  it  .otherwise  ?  That's  one  real 
advance  the  modern  mind  has  made,  any 
how,  despite  all  the  rest  of  the  welter  and 
uncertainty." 

"Of  course,  dearest." 

He  would  go  on.  After  a  while  Cecil 
would  awake  guiltily  and  inject  a  fresh, 
almost  gay  interest  into  her  sleepy  voice. 
She  was  not  so  unfettered  as  not  to  dread 


the  wounded  esteem  of  the  unlistened-to 
male.  She  would  lean  over  and  kiss 
Adrian. 

"Do  go  to  sleep,  darling !  What's  the 
sense?  Pretty  soon  your  uncle  will  be 
dead — wretched  old  man !  Then  you'll 
never  have  to  think  of  him  again."  Being 
a  childless  woman,  her  red,  a  trifle  cruel 
mouth,  would  twist  itself  in  the  darkness 
into  a  small,  secretive,  maternal  smile. 

But  old  Mr.  Henry  McCain  didn't  die; 
instead  he  seemed  to  be  caught  up  in  the 
condition  of  static  good  health  which 
frequently  companions  entire  selfishness 
and  a  careful  interest  in  oneself.  His 
butler  died,  which  was  very  annoying. 
Mr.  McCain  seemed  to  consider  it  the 
breaking  of  a  promise  made  fifteen  or  so 
years  before.  It  was  endlessly  a  trouble 
instructing  a  new  man,  and  then,  of 
course,  there  was  Adlington's  family  to  be 
looked  after,  and  taxes  had  gone  up,  and 
Mrs.  Adlington  was  a  stout  woman  who, 
despite  the  fact  that  Adlington,  while 
alive,  had  frequently  interrupted  Mr.  Mc 
Cain's  breakfast  newspaper  reading  by 
asserting  that  she  was  a  person  of  no 
character,  now  insisted  upon  weeping 
^noisily  every  time  Mr.  McCain  granted 
fe^r  an  interview.  Also,  and  this  was 
equally  unexpected,  since  one  rather 
thought  he  would  go  on  living  forever, 
like  due  of  the  damper  sort  of  fungi,  Mr. 
Denby\came  home  from  the  club  one 
rainy  spring  night  with  a  slight  cold  and 
died,  three  days  later,  with  extraordinary 
gentleness.  \  , 

"My  uncle,"  said  Adrian,  "is  one  by 
one  losing  his  Accessories.  After  a  while 
it  will  be  his  teeth." 

Cecil  was  perplexed.  "I  don't  know 
exactly  what  to  doV  she  complained.  "  I 
don't  know  whether  to  treat. Mrs.  Denby 
as  a  bereaved  aunt,  a  *jon-existent  family 
skeleton,  or  a  released\menace.  I  dare 
say  now,  pretty  soon,  she  and  your  uncle 
will  be  married.  Meanwhile,  I  suppose 
it  is  rather  silly  of  me  not  to  call  and  see 
if  I  can  help  her  in  any  way. ,  After  all, 
we  do  know  her  intimately,  whether  we 
want  to  or  not,  don't  we  ?  We  meet  her 
about  all  the  time,  even  if  she  wasn't  mo 
toring  over  to  your  uncle's  place  in  the 
summer  when  we  stop  there." 

So  she  went,  being  fundamentally 
kindly  and  fundamentally  curious.  She 


\ 


46 


Each  in   His  Generation 


spoke  of  the  expedition  as  "a  descent 
upon  Fair  Rosamund's  tower." 

The  small,  yellow-panelled  drawing- 
room\  where  she  awaited  Mrs.  Denby's 
coming^  was  lit  by  a  single  silver  vase- 
lamp  under  an  orange  shade  and  by  a 
fire  of  thiV logs,  for  the  April  evening  was 
damp  with\  hesitant  rain.  On  the  table, 
near  the  lamV  was  a  silver  vase  with  three 
yellow  tulips  in  it,  and  Cecil,  wandering 
about,  came  upon  a  double  photograph 
frame,  back  of  the  vase,  that  made  her 
gasp.  She  picked  it  up  and  stared  at  it. 
Between  the  alligator  edgings,  facing  each 
other  obliquely,  but. with  the  greatest 
amity,  were  Mr.  Thomas  Denby  in  the 
fashion  of  ten  years  before,  very  hand 
some,  very  well-groomed;, with  the  star 
tled  expression  which  any  clefinite  with 
drawal  from  his  potational  pursuits  was 
likely  to  produce  upon  his  countenance, 
and  her  uncle-in-law,  Mr.  Henry\McCain, 
also  in  the  fashion  of  ten  years  ba^k.  She 
was  holding  the  photographs  up  \o  the 
light,  her  lips  still  apart,  when  she  heard 
a  sound  behind  her,  and,  putting  \he 
frame  back  guiltily,  turned  about.  Mrs. 
Denby  was  advancing  toward  her.  She 
seemed  entirely  unaware  of  Cecil's  mal 
feasance;  she  was  smiling  faintly;  her 
hand  was  cordial,  grateful. 

"You  are  very  good,"  she  murmured. 
"  Sit  here  by  the  fire.  We  will  have  some 
tea  directly." 

Cecil  could  not  but  admit  that  she  was 
very  lovely;  particularly  lovely  in  the 
black  of  her  mourning,  with  her  slim  neck, 
rising  up  from  its  string  of  pearls,  to  a 
head  small  and  like  a  delicate  white-and- 
gold  flower.  An  extraordinarily  well-bred 
woman,  a  sort  of  misty  Du  Maurier  wom 
an,  of  a  type  that  had  become  almost  non 
existent,  if  ever  it  had  existed  in  its  per 
fection  at  all.  And,  curiously  enough,  a 
woman  whose  beauty  seemed  to  have  been 
sharpened  by  many  fine-drawn  renunci 
ations.  Now  she  looked  at  her  hands  as 
if  expecting  Cecil  to  say  something. 

"I  think  such  calls  as  this  are  always 
very  useless,  but  then — 

"  Exactly — but  then  !  They  mean  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  world,  don't 
they  ?  When  one  reaches  fifty-five  one  is 
not  always  used  to  kindness.  .  .  .  You 
are  very  kind.  ..."  She  raised  her  eyes. 

Cecil  experienced  a  sudden  impulsive 


warmth.     "After  all,  what  did  she  or  anj 
one  else  know  about  other  peoples'  lives  ? 
Poor  souls !     What  a  base  thing  life  often 
was!' 

"I  want  you  to  understand  thative  are 
always  so  glad,  both  Adrian  and  myself. 
.  .  .  Any  time  we  can  help  in  any  way, 
you  know— 

"  Yes,  I  think  you"would.  You — I  have 
watched  you  both.  You  don't  mind,  do 
you?  I  think  you're  both  rather  great 
people — at  least,  my  idea  of  greatness." 

Cecil's  eyes  shone  just  a  little;  then  she 
sat  back  and  drew  together  her  eager, 
rather  childish  mouth.  This  wouldn't 
do !  She  had  not  come  here  to  encourage 
sentimentalization.  With  a  determined 
effort  she  lifted  her  mind  outside  the  cir 
cle  of  commiseration  which  threatened  to 
surround  it.  She  deliberately  reset  the 
conversation  to  impersonal  limits.  She 
was  sure  that  Mrs.  Denby  was  aware  of 
her  intention,  adroitly  concealed  as  it 
was.  This  made  her  uncomfortable, 
ashamed.  And  yet  she  was  irritated  with 
herself.  Why  should  she  particularly  care 
what  this  woman  thought  in  ways  as  sub 
tle  as  this?  Obvious  kindness  was  her 
'intention,  not  mental  charity  pursued 
into  tortuous  by-paths.  And,  besides,  her 
fr^fcnk,  boyish  cynicism,  its  wariness,  re 
volted,  even  while  she  felt  herself  flat- 
tereoSat  the  prospect  of  the  confidences 
that  seemed  to  tremble  on^Mrs.  Denby's 
lips.  It  wouldn't  do  to  "let  herself  in  for 
anything  \  to  "  give  herself  away. ' '  No ! 
She  adopteda  manner  of  cool,  entirely  re 
flective  kindliness.  But  all  along  she  was 
not  sure  that  s^e  was  thoroughly  success 
ful.  There  wa\  a  lingering  impression 
that  Mrs.  Denby  yas  penetrating  the  sur 
face  to  the  unwilling  interest  beneath. 
Cecil  suspected  that  this  woman  was 
trained  in  discriminations  and  half-lights 
to  which  she  and  her  generation  had  joy 
fully  made  themselves  "blind.  She  felt 
uncomfortably  young;  a  Iktle  bit  smiled 
at  in  the  most  kindly  of  Bidden  ways. 
Just  as  she  was  leaving,  the  subversive 
softness  came  close  to  her  again,  like  a 
wave  of  too  much  perfume  as  you  open  a 
church-door;  as  if  some  one  were ytry ing 
to  embrace  her  against  her  will.  \ 

"You  will  understand,"  said  Mrs. 
Denby,  "that  you  have  done  the  vbry 
nicest  thing  in  the  world.  I  am  horribly 


Each  in  His  Generation 


47 


V-   P^ 

Honely.  I  have  few  women  friends.  Per- 
hims  it  is  too  much  to  ask — but  if  you 
could  call  again  sometime.  Yes  ...  I 
would  appreciate  it  so  greatly." 

SheXlet  go  of  Cecil's  hand  and  walked 
to  the  door,  and  stood  with  one  long  arm 
raised  against  the  curtain,  her  face  turned 
toward  thexhall. 

"There  i\no  use,"  she  said,  "in  at 
tempting  to  hide  my  husband's  life,  for 
every  one  knowf  what  it  was,  but  then — 
yes,  I  think  you  Vill  understand.  I  am  a 
childless  woman,  y<?u  see;  he  was  infinitely 
pathetic." 

Cecil  felt  that  she Nmust  run  away,  in 
stantly.  "I  do — "  s\e  said  brusquely. 
"I  understand  more  than  other  women. 
Perfectly!  Good-by!" 

She  found  herself  brushirtg  past  the  lat 
est  trim  parlor-maid,  and  out  once  more 
in  the  keen,  sweet,  young  dampness.  She 
strode  briskly  down  the  deserted  street. 
Her  fine  bronze  eyebrows  were,  drawn 
down  to  where  they  met.  "Good-Lord ! 
Damn!" — Cecil  swore  very  prettily  and 
modernly — "What  rotten  taste!  Not 
frankness,  whatever  it  might  seem  out 
wardly;  not  frankness,  but  devious  ex 
cuses  !  Some  more  of  Adrian's  hated 
past-generation  stuff !  And  yet — no  ! 
The  woman  was  sincere — perfectly  !  She 
had  meant  it — that  about  her  husband. 
And  she  was  lovely — and  she  was  fine, 
too !  It  was  impossible  to  deny  it.  But — 
a  childless  woman !  About  that  drunken 
tailor's  model  of  a  husband !  And  then — 
Uncle  Henry!  .  .  ."  Cecil  threw  back 
her  head;  her  eyes  gleamed  in  the  wet  ra 
diance  of  a  corner  lamp;  she  laughed 
without  making  a  sound,  and  entirely 
without  amusement. 

But  it  is  not  true  that  good  health  is 
static,  no  matter  how  carefully  looked 
after.  And,  despite  the  present  revolt 
against  the  Greek  spirit,  Time  persists  in 
being  bigotedly  Greek.  The  tragedy- 
provided  one  lives  long  enough — is  always 
played  out  to  its  logical  conclusion.  For 
every  hour  you  have  spent,  no  matter  how 
quietly  or  beautifully  or  wisely,  Nemesis 
takes  toll  in  the  end.  You  peter  out; 
the  engine  dulls;  the  shining  coin  wears 
thin.  If  it's  only  that  it  is  all  right;  you 
are  fortunate  if  you  don't  become  greasy, 
too,  or  blurred,  or  scarred.  And  Mr.  Mc 
Cain  had  not  spent  all  his  hours  wisely  or 


beautifully,  or  even  quietly,  underneath 
the  surface.  He  suddenly  developed 
what  he  called  "acute  indigestion." 
"Odd!"  he  complained,  "and  exceed 
ingly  tiresome !  I've  been  able  to  >6at 
like  an  ostrich  all  my  life."  Adrian 
smiled  covertly  at  the  simile,  but  his  uncle 
was  unaware  that  jt  was  because  in 
Adrian's  mind  the  simile  applied  to  his 
uncle's  conscience,  not  his  stomach. 

It  was  an  odd  disease,  that  "acute  in 
digestion."  It  manifested  itself  by  an 
abrupt  tragic  stare  in  Mr.  McCain's  eyes, 
a  whiteness  of  cheek,  a  clutching  at  the  left 
side  of  the  breast;  it  resulted  also  in  his 
beginning  to  walk  very  slowly  indeed. 
One  day  Adrian  met  Carron,  his  uncle's 
physician,  as  he  was  leaving  a  club  after 
luncheon.  Carron  stopped  him.  "Look 
here,  Adrian,"  he  said,  "is  that  new  man 
of  your  uncle's — that  valet,  or  whatever 
he  is — a  good  man?" 

Adrian  smiled.  "I  didn't  hire  him," 
he  answered,  "and  I  couldn't  discharge 
him  if  I  wanted — in  fact,  any  suggestion 
of  that  kind  on  my  part,  would  lead  to 
his  employment  for  life.  Why?" 
"  "Because,"  said  Carron,  "he  impresses 
.me  as  being  rather  young  and  flighty,  and 
some  day  your  uncle  is  going  to  die  sud 
denly.  He  may  last  five  years;  he  may 
snuff  out  to-morrow.  It's  his  heart." 
His  lips  twisted  pityingly.  "He  prefers 
to  call\t  by  some  other  name,"  he  added, 
"and  h&  would  never  send  for  me  again 
if  he  kne\  I  had  told  you,  but  you  ought 
to  know.  NHe's  a  game  old  cock,  isn't 
he?" 

"Oh,  very!"  agreed  Adrian.  "Yes, 
game  !  Very,  indeed ! " 

He  walked  slowly  down  the  sunlit 
courtway  on  widely  the  back  door  of  the 
club  opened,  swingii\g  his  stick  and  med 
itating.  Spring  was\pproaching  its  ze 
nith.  In  the  warm  May  afternoon  pig 
eons  tumbled  about  nearsby  church  spires 
which  cut  brown  inlays  into  the  soft  blue 
sky.  There  was  a  feeling  'of  open  win 
dows;  a  sense  of  unseen  tulips  and  hya 
cinths  ;  of  people  playing  pianos.  .  .  .  Too 
bad,  an  old  man  dying  that  way,  his  hand 
furtively  seeking  his  heart,  when  all  this 
spring  was  about !  Terror  in  possession 
of  him,  too !  People  like  that  hated  to 
die;  they  couldn't  see  anything  ahead. 
Well,  Adrian  reflected,  the  real  tragedy 


\ 


48 


Each  in  His  Generation 


of  it  hadn't  been  his  fault.  He  had  al 
ways  been  ready  at  the  slightest  signal  to 
forVet  almost  everything — yes,  almost 
everything.  Even  that  time  when,  as  a 
sweating  newspaper  reporter,  he  had,  one 
dusk,  watched  in  the  park  his  uncle  and 
Mrs.  De\by  drive  past  in  the  cool  seclu 
sion  of  a  skjining  victoria.  Curious  !•  -  Ip. 
itself  the  incident  was  small,  but  it  had 
stuck  in  his  memory  more  than  others  far 
more  serious,  ^s  concrete  instances  are 
likely  to  do.  .  .\  No,  he  wasn't  sorry; 
not  a  bit !  He  wa§  glad,  despite  the  hesi 
tation  he  experienced  in  saying  to  himself 
the  final  word.  He\had  done  his  best, 
and  this  would  mean  hjs  own  release  and 
Cecil's.  It  would  mean^at  last  the  blessed 
feeling  that  he  could  actually  afford  a 
holiday,  and  a  little  unthiriking  laughter, 
and,  at  thirty-nine,  the  dreams  for  which, 
at  twenty-five,  he  had  never  had  full  time. 
He  walked  on  down  the  courtway  more 
briskly. 

That  Saturday  night  was  the  night  he 
dined  with  his  uncle.  .  It  had  turnecKyery 
warm;  unusually  warm  for  the  time,  of 
year.  When  he  had  dressed  and  had 
sought  out  Cecil  to  say  good-by  to  her  he 
found  her  by  the  big  studio  window  on 
the  top  floor  of  the  apartment  where  they 
lived.  She  was  sitting  in  the  window- 
seat,  her  chin  cupped  in  her  hand,  look 
ing  out  over  the  city,  in  the  dark  pool 
of  which  lights  were  beginning  to  open 
like  yellow  water-lilies.  Her  white  arm 
gleamed  in  the  gathering  dusk,  and  she 
was  dressed  in  some  diaphanous  blue  stuff 
that  enhanced  the  bronze  of  her  hair. 
Adrian  took  his  place  silently  beside  her 
and  leaned  out.  The  air  was  very  soft 
and  hot  and  embracing,  and  up  here  it 
was  very  quiet,  as  if  one  floated  above  the 
lower  clouds  of  perpetual  sound. 

Cecil  spoke  at  last.  "It's  lovely,  isn't 
it?"  she  said.  "I  should  have  come  to 
find  you,  but  I  couldn't.  These  first  warm 
nights  !  You  really  understand  why  peo 
ple  live,  after  all,  don't  you  ?  It's  like  a 
pulse  coining  back  to  a  hand  you  love." 
She  was  silent  a  moment.  "Kiss  me," 
she  said,  finally.  "I — I'm  so  glad  I  love 
you,  and  we're  young." 

He  stooped  down  and  put  his  arms 
about  her.  He  could  feel  her  tremble. 
How  fragrant  she  was,  and  queer,  and 
mysterious,  even  if  he  had  lived  with  her 


now  for  almost  fifteen  years  !    He  was  ii 
finitely  glad  at  the  moment  for  his  entii 
life.     He  kissed  her  again,  kissed  her  ey 
and  she  went  down  the  stairs  with  him 
the  hall-door.     She  was  to  stop  for  hii 
at  his  uncle's,  after  a  dinner  to  which  si 
was  going. 

Adrian  lit  a  cigarette  and  walked 
stead  'of  taking  the  elevator.     It  was  aj 
propriate  to  his  mood  that  on  the  secoi 
floor  some  one  with  a  golden  Italian  voic 
should  be  singing  "Louise."     He  pau< 
for  a  moment.     He  was  reminded  of 
night  long  ago  in  Verona,  when  there  h 
been  an  open  window  and  moonlight 
the  street.     Then  he  looked  at  his  watc 
He  was  late;  he  would  have  to  hurry, 
ajnused  him  that  at  his  age  he  should  sti 
fear  the  silent  rebuke  with  which  his  uncj 
punished  unpunctuality. 

He   ar/ived  at  his  destination   as 
near-by  church  clock  struck  the  half-houj 
The  new  butler  admitted  him  and  led  hi 
back  to  where  his  uncle  was  sitting  by 
open  window;  the  curtains  stirred  in  tl 
languid  breeze,  the  suave  room  was  a 
tie  penetrated  by  the  night,  as  if  some  sb 
disorderly  spirit  was  investigating  unh 
vited.     It  was  far  too  hot  for  the  w( 
fire — that  part  of  the  formula  had  beel 
omitted,  but  otherwise  each  detail 
the \same.     "The  two  hundredth  time ! 
Adrian  thought  to  himself.     "The  ti 
hundredth  time,  at  least !     It  will  go  o| 
forever ! "     And  then  the  formula  was 
tered  again,  for  his  uncle  got  to  his  feel 
laying  aside  the  evening  paper  with  hi 
usual  precise  care.     "  My  dear  fellow," 
began,  "  so  good  of  you !    On  the  minul 
too !     I—  '  and  then  he  stumbled  ai 
put  out  his  hand.     "My  glasses!"  hi 
said. 

Adrian  caught  him  and  held  him  uj 
right.     He  swayed  a  little.     "I —  Latelj 
I  have  had  to  use  them  sometimes,  eve} 
when     not     reading,"     he     murmurec 
"  Thank  you !    Thank  you ! " 

Adrian  went  back  to  the  chair  when 
his  uncle  had  been  sitting.     He  found 
glasses — gold  pince-nez — but  they  wei 
broken  neatly  in  the  middle,  lying  on  tl 
floor,  as  if  they  had  dropped  from  soi 
one's  hand.     He  looked  at  them  for 
moment,  puzzled,  before  he  gave  thei 
back  to  his  uncle. 

" Here  they  are,  sir,"  he  said.     "But- 


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